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Gedicht

Robert Berold

BOUBOU

BOUBOU

BOUBOU

Sounds are rich in the forest of return
sourbush smells and hints of fear
Behind me is the ink of the cathedral
and the soft raindrops which slant the air.

The light of my parents’ house is very far away
I don’t know if I’ll ever see that house again
But I know I’ll hold someone in my arms
we’ll heal each other of the knife-wound’s pain

Boubou is hidden but his song is clean
he’ll be here when our violence is gone
Boubou’s song has turned to a call
which enters my memory as I walk on

Is it a call or a calling, how would I know?
only time and attention will tell
All I know as the world turns to iron
is this birdsong and this particular smell
Robert Berold

Robert Berold

(Zuid-Afrika, 1948)

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BOUBOU

Sounds are rich in the forest of return
sourbush smells and hints of fear
Behind me is the ink of the cathedral
and the soft raindrops which slant the air.

The light of my parents’ house is very far away
I don’t know if I’ll ever see that house again
But I know I’ll hold someone in my arms
we’ll heal each other of the knife-wound’s pain

Boubou is hidden but his song is clean
he’ll be here when our violence is gone
Boubou’s song has turned to a call
which enters my memory as I walk on

Is it a call or a calling, how would I know?
only time and attention will tell
All I know as the world turns to iron
is this birdsong and this particular smell

BOUBOU

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